Eurydice
by Monoshiri
Summary: My very first Pegasus-centric fic ^-^. Before the Sennen Eye took him, he was a man at odds with reality, whose only wish was to regain what he had lost...the woman he loved. Rated for PegsAngst and snobby literary references. Sorry. @-@
1. St Dunstan and Diana

"Eurydice" By Monoshiri  
  
A/N: My first Pegasus-centric fanfic. I fooked with his history: please forgive me. This includes an O/C, but it's mostly focused on Pegs and his feelings about life pre- and post-Cynthia, and there's no romance of the Pegasus/Niirjudda variety. You'll see why immediately if you know the references, and later on it will be made jackhammer obvious. ^-^ This is also only in its roughest stages, so any feedback/criticism would be deeply appreciated. *bows*  
  
A Few Brief Notes (on the literary references): (1) Eurydice was the wife of the gifted minstrel Orpheus in Greek mythology, and they were deeply in love. When Eurydice died tragically soon after their marriage, Orpheus was deeply distraught, and he wandered the earth trying to find a way to reunite with his dead beloved. He eventually made his way to the Underworld, where the beauty of his music so entranced Cerberus and the Ferryman of the Styx that he was able to pass by and go among the dead. He sought an audience with Hades himself, and played so beautifully that Persephone, Hades' unwilling bride and Queen of the Underworld, was moved to tears, and pleaded with her husband on Orpheus' behalf to release Eurydice's soul. However, Orpheus' effort failed because he broke the condition Hades placed on him; that is, that he should lead Eurydice out of the Underworld without looking back at her once. Poor Orpheus: he thought he'd made it out too soon, and couldn't wait to look on his wife's face; so Eurydice had to return to the Underworld and Orpheus had to wander alone and in despair until his own death reunited them. (Sound like anybody we know? Poor ole' Pegs.) (2) St. Dunstan and Diana are in reference to some Canuck literature by the name of "Fifth Business", by the fantastic Robertson Davies. The chapter's called that after two characters, one the main character of the story and the "Fifth Business" of the title (dramaturges will get this, but the rest of you should just go read the book, even if you're not Canadian), and the other the woman who unconsciously shapes his life by re-naming him after a traumatic service in the First World War.  
  
Unn--brief notes, huh? Whoopsie-daisy. *cackles* Who's rambling? ^-^  
  
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~  
  
CHAPTER ONE: ST. DUNSTAN AND DIANA  
  
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~  
  
Live for the impossible.  
  
That was always my motto, as a child; when the other boys were playing with toy guns and dreaming of becoming soldiers, or firefighters, or the President of the United States, I was longing for the days of once upon a time and far away. Impossible, indeed, to meet with creatures of myth; to battle dragons and wicked witches, meet unicorns and fairies. I could draw them in my school books at least, but never see them face to face.  
  
I worried my parents a bit back then, I know, but I hope I made them proud, too. They were the closest thing we Americans have to royalty, well- heeled bourgeoisie who had money left over from the old country, and had made enough in the new to have everything they could ever desire. I grew up accustomed to privilege, in fact perhaps would have become a bit spoiled if one of my early tutors hadn't taken an extremely sharp line with me-but more on him later.  
  
My parents desired only the best for me, especially my father. The son of a prominent businessman who had been so obsessed with his work that he'd rarely seen him during his formative years, and who had insisted that his only child have an equal obsession, my father was determined that I should be allowed to indulge in interests outside of making money. My mother liked the idea of my being afforded what, in olden days, was often given grudgingly to sons of wealthy households: to pursue a course in my life as I chose it, without pressure to uphold the family name and heraldry.  
  
Am I starting to sound too wordy? Forgive me: Cynthia used to tease me about-no, not now. Later.  
  
So when I expressed a fascination with art, they let me doodle along for a while, as children will, and then when they felt I was old enough, I began classical instruction. Outside of my usual tutor, Mr. Ducroix (I pronounced it Dyu-croikse, and he had the immense patience to laugh heartily before correcting me), a Mr. Baptist was hired to teach me mathematics and to develop my artistic skills. Ferdinand Baptist was a sharp-tongued, merciless educator when it came to practical things; however, in art he was more willing to allow a pupil to set the pace, and to see and exploit a forte whenever he discovered one, gently and without expectations or hurrying. I have been schooled in visual art by many different people, and yet I can still say that Mr. Baptist was the best of them.  
  
However, there was one thing I did which got on his nerves immeasurably. I would constantly choose fantasy subjects for my classical pictures. Whether it be my mental image of the seduction of Paris by Aphrodite, King Arthur having Excalibur bestowed on him by the Lady of the Lake, a ring of Faeries, or simple some random unicorns or a dragon or three, my delight was in the mythic and the unreal made part of the world I knew. Mr. Baptist tolerated this for a while, then eventually complained about it to me. I threw his own words back in his face - "Paint what captures your mind, Pegasus, your imagination," - and he became deeply annoyed.  
  
I bring this up because the night after that, my parents held a lavish garden party for their wealthier friends from all across the globe. They asked if I wanted to bring anyone: at ten years old, I was feeling insecure and rather rebellious, so I cheerfully told them I wanted to invite Mr. Baptist.  
  
My mother was horrified at first, but after a fair bit of coaxing from my father, she relented, with a look on her face like she had eaten a lemon. She insisted on stuffing me into my most formal suit and combing my thick silver locks herself before the evening began, and she made dark hints to Mr. Baptist that he should refrain from showing any of the guests up for being pretentious (a hobby of his that I found endless entertainment in watching), or his employment might be in jeopardy.  
  
That night, lost among the lanterns and the evening heat and the multitude of well-dressed, well-groomed, beautiful people, I found myself at the centre of the garden near the dessert table, talking to Mr. Baptist as he was the only person there whom I knew. Our conversation turned to my paintings after a while, and he once more expressed his displeasure with my fanciful choice of subjects. I remember the exchange that followed very clearly.  
  
"My dear boy, the subject of your painting is a matter of personal choice, but no artist can draw on myth and fantasy exclusively, without grounding himself in reality as well! Remember what I told you about breaking the rules before you know them? Besides, when your head's up in the air, it's good to have a subject for your art that keeps you on *this* side of reality."  
  
"But, Mr. Baptist - "  
  
"Yes?"  
  
"You said to look for a subject that inspires me to paint, and, well, I haven't found anything like that in, um, real life."  
  
Mr. Baptist made a huffy noise through his teeth. "Hmph! Then you need to get out there and look for one. Start by scanning this very garden party: perhaps you'll find something inspiring around here."  
  
I doubted it, and was going to tell him so, but nearby us a woman in a diamond-encrusted ball gown started going on about the Monet she had just purchased at Southeby's, and I could see by the glint that appeared in Mr. Baptist's eye that he had forgotten my mother's warning. He left his dish of fruit salad and wove through the crowd towards her, effectively abandoning me to my own devices.  
  
I stood by the table feeling silly and out of place for a while, as I still do at most social gatherings such as that. After a while, I also became somewhat bored, so I decided to take my tutor's advice and scan the crowd for possible subjects.  
  
After about ten minutes, I almost gave up. I'd never before seen such a group of unprepossessing people. Vacuous, cold, distant face after face, beautiful (if not naturally then under the surgeon's scalpel), properly adorned, neither under- nor over-dressed, but they were all oh, so unremarkable. I began to wonder if "this side of reality" was really all Mr. Baptist considered it cracked up to be.  
  
Then, by chance, as I was giving the crowd a final once-over just to be able to tell my tutor what I thought of his realistic subjects, I saw her.  
  
Yes, her. You know of whom I speak.  
  
It was the shining cascade of golden hair that caught my eye, but it was her face - a face so full of loving compassion, laughter, vitality, beauty, everything that takes and holds my heart and takes it still now - it was her face that held it. And then our eyes met and I looked into impossible sparkling blue, and I knew then that I had found what was to keep me on this side of reality.  
  
Or had I instead found an angel in human guise?  
  
She looked back at me with a shy zephyr of a smile flitting back and forth across her lips, fidgeting with the hem of her lilac party dress.  
  
"Uh - hello."  
  
"Hello."  
  
We gazed at each other dumbly for a while longer - or rather, I gazed dumbly, she smiled and looked graciously back - before I suddenly got up my courage and blurted out;  
  
"W-what's your name?"  
  
Cliché though it might be, her giggle was like little silver bells.  
  
"I'm Cynthia. Who're you?"  
  
Cynthia.  
  
I would never, I felt at that moment, have to venture back into the world of myth again. I had found all the wonder I needed right here.  
  
Cynthia.  
  
I barely remember introducing myself to her, or how pleased my mother was when Mr. Baptist finally reminded her of my presence at the party and she went to the bottom of the garden to find Cynthia and I sitting on a swing talking. She thought I'd made a new friend.  
  
Cynthia.  
  
Although for many years afterwards she and I would delve into old legends or fairy tales (we had so much in common it was astounding to me; it still is), it was less to me now than Cynthia was. My paintings became more - enchanted, I suppose, is the word - with reality, which held so much more meaning to me now because of her. My imagination became concerned with earthly matters.  
  
Cynthia.  
  
Now that she's gone, I live for the impossible again. Only now, the impossible is not only a desire, it is what I *must* reach-  
  
- if I am ever to see her again -  
  
Cynthia.  
  
~*~*~*~*~*~*~  
  
Pegasus J. Crawford closed his eyes and re-opened them. The tombstone before him did not go away as he had hoped. Had it only been a month?  
  
"Without you -" he whispered, his fingers tracing the name on the stone, "it seems like so much longer. So much longer-"  
  
He paused and looked across the graveyard at the gathering clouds on the horizon. Was it pathetic fallacy, to assume that the world had emotions? Yes, that was it. The rain would come soon. He turned back to his wife's final resting place.  
  
"I-I hate to leave you, Cynthia, but you do remember, don't you, how Professor Damascus agreed to let me help on the dig in Cairo? I have to go to Oxford University: there's a woman there who's going to help us translate the artefacts we find. She's Senegalese, and apparently very well-versed in ancient Egyptian writings. It could be a major find, very important - "  
  
Pegasus broke off and continued to kneel there silently for some time, his hand resting on the tombstone. It didn't matter any more. None of it mattered any more.  
  
*Why did I ever think this reality could be beautiful?*  
  
He rose and walked away, certainly not for the last time. A single raindrop fell from the sky, an advent of the coming deluge, and landed with a soft *plink* on the granite headstone of Cynthia Crawford.  
  
~*~*~*~*~*~*~  
  
A/N: I'll continue this, I swear. I dun wanna leave poor Pegs feeling all depressive and suicidal. Although everyone knows the inevitable outcome here (i.e PsychoSennenEye!Pegs, Duellist Kingdom etc.), I wanted to show that he has the capability for self-saving, that he isn't just an unfortunate victim of Fate, and that he has some hope for the future. Plus, I wanna lay the groundwork for some post-DK redemption for poor old eyeless Pegsu. ^-^ 


	2. Leisl and Magnus Eisengrim

"Eurydice" by Monoshiri  
  
A/N: Apologies for further f00king with Pegasus' past.  
  
= = = = = = = =  
  
CHAPTER TWO: LEISL AND MAGNUS EISENGRIM  
  
= = = = = = = =  
  
Pegasus J. Crawford's mood had been in a steady decline ever since his plane landed at Heathrow Airport. The pouring rain was terrible, as was the fact that his mentor on this dig, Professor Damascus, had been three hours late picking him up, apparently due to an unfortunate incident with a London cabdriver, a fire hydrant, and an English matron's poodle. Damascus' humorous account failed to lift the young man's spirits in the least.  
  
Besides that, Pegasus was discovering that the old sentiment 'out of sight, out of mind' was untrue. His torpor was growing, and he knew it. Clinical depression was apparently common after a loved one's death, but for Pegasus it was considerably more acute than despair: it was the vague sense that he had lost a part of his very being. He gazed out the window of Damascus' car, watching merry old England pass by with utter disinterest.  
  
*If only I could see her again, just once, I could be happy.*  
  
After several hours of driving they finally reached Oxford University. Sopping wet and looking a rather wretched specimen, Pegasus and his mentor arrived in the massive main hallway. The chill area was deserted, entirely devoid of students, which was a very strange thing. However, there *was* a rather rotund gentleman sitting placidly on one of the many benches lining the walls, a look of benign contempt on his face as he watched the newcomers.  
  
Professor Damascus finally noticed the only other occupant of the hall after wringing his hat out, and after nodding sharply to the stranger he shot Pegasus a look which said, as clearly as words, 'Honestly, some people have no manners!' The fat man smiled faintly and got to his feet.  
  
"Ah, you must be Jacob Damascus! Delighted you could make it, old fellow, albeit a little late."  
  
"Yes, well, we were held up in traffic," Damascus responded curtly. "This is my protégé, Mr. Pegasus J. Crawford, a very talented young man." Pegasus came out of his torpor long enough to take a great interest in the floor. The fat man's smile broadened and he looked at Pegasus a little more calculatingly than before.  
  
"Yes, indeed, indeed! Hmm, well, if you would follow me, please? There are several members of our field academics team I'd like you to meet: they'll be going with you to the dig at Cairo."  
  
Damascus and Pegasus followed their round guide through a labyrinth of corridors to a large room, into which they were ushered. There were about twenty people in there, all terribly important-looking middle aged and elderly men. Pegasus suddenly felt very much out of his depth, and even the smile of encouragement Professor Damascus shot him didn't help. He watched the field academics surround his mentor and begin peppering him with questions: apart from a few questioning or disdainful looks in his direction, no one paid him any mind. With a sigh, he wandered off to the far side of the room, which was fortunately furnished with comfortable chairs, and settled himself in a vacant seat, next to a large orange- magenta blanket which appeared to have been rolled up and placed on a chair.  
  
The blanket moved.  
  
Pegasus yelped and half-jumped out of his chair. *Idiot!! That blanket had *feet*, for heavens' sakes!!*  
  
As soon as he had composed himself, he took a good look at the so- called blanket.  
  
It was an African woman, tall, probably enough so to look him straight in the eyes were she standing. She was clothed in the Muslim manner, with a long-sleeved, loose dress, a few copper bracelets on her left wrist, and a headscarf fastened rather haphazardly at the base of her throat, although the haphazardness could be due to her having been, as far as Pegasus could tell, napping. The vibrant colour of her clothes and scarf were remarkable.  
  
She blinked, looking at him with surprise but no sleepiness in her dark eyes; eyes so dark it was hard to tell if they were brown, black, or a very dark shade of violet. Her face was angular and regal, but not emaciated, with high cheekbones and a long, proud nose. Pegasus wasn't sure whether to make conjecture on her age, because although she looked relatively youthful, there were fine wrinkles around the corners of her eyes and her lips. She appeared, however, to be a few years his senior, but not yet middle-aged.  
  
Pegasus realized he'd been staring and caught himself quickly, nodding to her in greeting. "Um, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to disturb you, ma'am."  
  
"It's quite alright."  
  
"Well, no, it's not alright to wake someone up without so much as a by-your-leave."  
  
"Wake me up--? Oh!" Her voice carried an accent which was definitely not British. "No, no, you mistake me: I was not asleep. I, ah, to coin a phrase from my professor, had my nose stuck in a book."  
  
Pegasus couldn't help but laugh just a little. The woman smiled in return, allowing the silver-haired man to inspect her reading material. It was a copy of Ovid's *Metamorphosis*, well-worn, but what interested Pegasus was not the battered volume but the woman's hands. Her ebony hands were long and almost as ravaged as the book, with long delicate fingers and a slender palm on each. They were covered with calluses, scars, even burn marks. *These are not the hands of a scholar. These are the hands of an aged housewife, a farmer-or someone who has been through a war.*  
  
The woman noticed.  
  
"Are you fond of Ovid, or are you wondering if I play piano?"  
  
Pegasus blushed, which considering his pale colouring caused him to resemble a Christmas tree light bulb. The woman, apparently having decided he'd learned his lesson, did not pursue the matter.  
  
"Well, you'd best get back to the other scholars. I'm certain I'm of no interest to you."  
  
The smile that accompanied that statement was thin and rather depressed.  
  
Pegasus stared at her in confusion for a few more seconds, until he was accosted and dragged off by Professor Damascus, whose mood had only slightly improved.  
  
"Well! That was a self-important bunch if I've ever seen one. Come on, we'd better get ready: the plane to Cairo leaves tomorrow."  
  
"Oh," was all Pegasus was able to say as his podgy professor directed him to the car. "So the discussion didn't go well, then?"  
  
"No, no, they're all a bunch of puffed-up fakes: the only exception is that Adam Goldsmith fellow, he seems to have some genuine skills. I'd pair you up with him, lad, if you hadn't already got a partner for the expedition."  
  
"I-I what?? I beg your pardon? I never heard anything about this!"  
  
"Well, then you weren't listening very hard. You're paired with the translation expert for the trip! Not in the same hotel room, mind you-- here, why that expression?"  
  
"Ah--no reason. It's just that I like to be told things like this before having it dumped on my head!"  
  
"Hmph, you and I both, lad. But there's no need to be getting all gloomy; you've already met your partner at least."  
  
"Wha-no I haven't! Whatever gave you that idea?"  
  
Damascus stopped fumbling for the car keys and turned around to stare at the perplexed Pegasus, a half-amused, half-critical look on his face.  
  
"D'you mean to tell me you didn't know that the young Senegalese lady you were jawing with back there is our translator, Niirjudda Dijabar? You nitwit!!"  
  
Pegasus flushed a little, feeling annoyed. "We weren't exactly *jawing*." Still, he couldn't subdue his curiosity. The bookish Muslim woman with the night-black eyes and the ravaged hands--*she* was the prestigious translator the Oxford team was relying on to unlock the mysteries of ancient Egypt?  
  
"That's as may be," Damascus muttered as he finally succeeded in unlocking the car, "but she's also the best translator I've ever seen. Got a gift for languages, that woman. Give her a few books and someone who speaks the tongue fluently, and within two months she'll have it down as well as any who've spoken and written it since birth. Amazing and all--but it's not like the expedition heads'll ever admit that she's essential."  
  
Pegasus got in and watched Damascus start up the engine, his mind elsewhere. He felt perversely grateful all of a sudden that his partner, the only woman on the team, was such an anomaly: Cynthia's exact opposite in every aspect. He wouldn't have been able to stand it if she'd reminded him somehow of the love he'd lost what seemed like an eon ago--  
  
As they drove away from the university, Pegasus noted that the rain had stopped, and a brief glint of sun cut the clouds.  
  
*Egypt,* Pegasus thought, as the light flashed and was gone. *I wonder what we'll find there.*  
  
= = = = = = =  
  
Niirjudda Dijabar stood at the library window overlooking the parking lot and watched Damascus' car speed away. Beside her stood Professor Adam Goldsmith, his tranquil countenance a marked contrast to the frown knitting itself across the tall African woman's brow.  
  
"That young man Professor Damascus brought with him--what did you say his name was again, Professor Goldsmith?"  
  
Goldsmith nodded mildly at the disappearing vehicle. "What, the young chap with the silver hair? I seem to recall him being named Pegasus J. Crawford. Damascus said the fellow's forte is art, you know, paintings and such, but lately he's become very interested in ancient Egyptian archaeology and cultural artefacts. Not much of a talker, though--so you two should get along fine. Why do you ask?"  
  
"No reason."  
  
"Oh, come now, we both know that's not true. What is it, really?"  
  
Niirjudda sighed and tapped the pads of her fingers against the glass pane, feeling the brief glimpse of sun warm them, if only for a moment. Her eyes screwed shut briefly and then snapped open again, this time filled with unhidden concern.  
  
"Something about him worries me. That's one thing. He's like a man whose heart is made of lead. He walks like one stumbling."  
  
"And the other thing?" Goldsmith, no fool, asked quietly.  
  
Niirjudda closed her eyes and did not open them again this time.  
  
"Something in his face reminds me of Gaynde."  
  
"You'll have to put such concerns aside, Mrs. Dijabar, if the expedition is to be successful," Goldsmith chided.  
  
"I know."  
  
But the older man noticed that, when he left the library, she remained at the window, staring out at the now-returned gloom, and at the road beyond the university boundaries, into the distance.  
  
= = = = = = =  
  
"He is on his way. The expedition will leave tomorrow."  
  
"Good. It is good that he comes to Egypt.but I will have to study him myself."  
  
"For what, if I may ask, sir?"  
  
"For signs that he is suitable.that he is the one who should have the Item."  
  
"I see."  
  
Empty blue eyes fluttered open to gaze upon the messenger. "Do you? If he is.incorrect for the Item, it will drive him mad. And a madman with the power of a Sennen Item at his call is as dangerous as the fangs of Apophis."  
  
"I am sure your judgement will be impeccable in that respect, sir," the messenger said without any hint of irony in his voice, before bowing and leaving his master in peace.  
  
In the depths of the vast, ancient room, the man now known as Shadi turned away from the torchlight to contemplate the darkness.  
  
"Pegasus J. Crawford-do you know what you will find when you reach this land?"  
  
= = = = = = =  
  
A/N: Yaay! 'Nother chapter. For those who care. *glomps Akemi* Thank you sooo much for the review! Heh, yeah, Shrub is a scary guy that way, isn't he? *shudders and hides* What'll Shadi do to our dear old messed-up silver- hair? Will Pegs ever find happiness again after Cynthia? And who the heck is Gaynde? Not to worry, all questions will be answered in future instalments. ^___^ 


End file.
